


Forget me not.

by RationalistRomantic (Chryses)



Series: Fragments [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Accidental overdose, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Deletion of Memories, I'm Sorry, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, No Character Death, Sad John, Sad Sherlock, Soulmate Trial-Induced Amnesia, This is generally sad, This was in the past, also, series fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-29 06:14:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7673182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chryses/pseuds/RationalistRomantic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which they tried so hard to remember, but ended up forgetting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forget me not.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [agathachristie62](https://archiveofourown.org/users/agathachristie62/gifts).



> Okay, someone pointed out (agathachristie62) that they wanted backstories about how Sherlock and John lost their memories. Without further ado, this is my take on it. Enjoy!

“You know, I’m very angry with you.”

 

He voiced his thoughts out towards the empty crevice of his bed. His whole room provided no adequate lighting (not that he wanted it anyway), and his drapes were closed that not a peep of colour reflected in the room. His thoughts were completely and utterly in tatters, thinking about the what ifs, and different variations of dark compositions ranging from classics like Requiem Mass in D minor to Schindler’s List. He was on his bed, staring at the distinct patterns of acid that marred itself on his ceiling during one of his earlier experiments, trying to keep his organs from spilling out.

 

Though John was deported just a few hours ago, the crawling in his skin was beyond painful to bare. The urge wasn’t as bad when he had his mate by his side, but without him was something close to dystopia, because he knew very well what happened to soldiers on duty, as well as their mortality rate down to the last digit. God, he was such an idiot for making himself believe that they could actually stay together for their whole lives.

 

“You’re selfish, you’re inconsiderate, and you’re a jerk; so there.” He knew how petty he sounded, and how much of an arse he’s being, but John’s decidedly not present, and he couldn’t scold Sherlock, even if he was. Though he was invited to any time he’d like, if it meant that he wouldn’t leave Sherlock for a cumbersome of years after serving Queen and Country. “You didn’t tell me that you were going to be stationed so soon. The only conversation we had about this was...I don’t remember, because you were making stupid jokes, and I tuned you out most of the time that it became habitual.” One of his hands that wasn’t clawing at his throat with the dull ends of his nails (a habit - stupid violin), clenched on the remaining spot where John’s torso would’ve been. Stupid, stupid, stupid, how could he be so stupid to do such a thing? Everything that John had said should’ve been recorded in his Mind Palace.

 

Why did he have to serve the country anyway? Everyone else in London was stupid (apart from him, mummy, Mycroft, and John - well, he can be helpful when need be), and shallow, and not worth John’s time. _They need doctors right now, Sherlock._ “Shut up, John; you’re not here, so stop talking to me like you are.” Well, apart from the time spent with Sherlock, those times had got to be the most productive John ever was (and might he point out the happiest). He could’ve treated Sherlock’s wounds when he’s injured; would’ve sewed him right up even when he was in the brink of death (for the first and last time). He could be the only practitioner that Sherlock would’ve allowed to monitor him. His future was already decided when he met Sherlock, even whether he wanted to or not. It was inevitable.

 

“You told me that you were never going to leave me 39 times, John.” He accused the darkness, and glared menacingly at it. “39 times. I’m not going to count the last one, because that part of our lives is uncertain, and I don’t want to live whilst believing in something that could’ve ended up being a lie in the end.” The cocaine had finally taken effect, and even if he could see a translucent version of his partner by his side, smiling that ever-so-charming smile of his that Sherlock hoped translated to ‘forever’ and ‘till death do us part’ (something obnoxiously sentimental like that), it would do nothing with the way his veins lapped at the drug.

 

Taking in a breath, he inhaled air that smelt of John and he through his nostril in, and out, then repeat. He smiled one last time at his not-mate before he delved deep into his mind palace. He shrunk John’s room that smelt of tea, fabric softener, and cheap cologne to the smallest size he could’ve ever conjured. Squeezing his free hand, he headed to an abandoned area of where his father’s belongings were stationed, and decided to tuck the material within a small box that contained his precious childhood memories. The box itself was located where his father had tucked him in one last time before he stopped seeing the man altogether. How ironic. This is why this was his chosen location, he would have had to think twice before entering this place ever again.

 

He stroked the box one last time, before he bolted the rusted locks in place. Slowly, as he made his way up, the agonizing feelings that hindered him slowly imbedded within him, and he became numb to the emotion all together.

 

_Sherlock!_

 

He could feel stinging on his cheeks.

 

_Sherlock, for god’s sake, wake up!_

 

Mycroft? What did he want? Couldn’t he see that Sherlock’s in the middle of something?

 

_I will burn every single taxidermy that you ever got on your 20th birthday if you don’t wake. the. fuck. Up!_

 

There was vague conversations in the background, and voices that he didn’t remember hearing so in the past, drowning the sound of ambulances; strangers? What were they doing their house? Moreover, who was injured (or dead - sigh - wishful thinking) that they had to call in the ambulance? Must be the crazy cat lady by the entrance gates.

 

_Increased heart rate, and high blood pressure._

 

_Pupils dilated, and is not responding properly to light._

 

_Sir, we’re dealing with an overdose._

 

Collected gasps filled the room, and he could vaguely hear mummy crying in the background. Normally he would’ve hugged her, because mummy was a strong woman, and women like her only deserved the best. Always. Only problem was, he couldn’t move anything in his body, and his brain was finally peaceful. He’ll deal with her later, he decided. He would make sure of it.

 

 _The next time you wake up, you and I are going to have a very serious discussion about this, Little brother._ Mycroft sighed wearily at his side. _If John was here, he would’ve pummeled you until you are rid of this ghastly habit of yours._ Already, the name was beginning to sound foreign to him. Who was this John character? Why does the very name brings a torrent of needles to his heart? _Also, from now on, I’m going to coerce you to write every substance you have ever taken during every session. I’m not going to go through this again, Sherlock; your request to die was not approved of; stop defying me. Idiot. I’m sure John would agree._

 

A single tear escaped his eyelids as they navigated him to a gurney, along with faded memories of John Hamish Watson.

 

In the end, alone was what he had; alone protected him.

**Author's Note:**

> John's narration will come in the second chapter. Thoughts? :}


End file.
